


May Day Baskets

by Endangered_Slug



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, What if Belle lived in the village, Woobie Gold, fairy tale land au, fluffy fluff fluff fluff fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 11:01:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6751333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Endangered_Slug/pseuds/Endangered_Slug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumplestiltskin has had an affection for the maiden Belle ever since she'd come to live in his village. Too bad he's too shy to do anything about it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>This is just a short, sweet, fluffy FTL AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	May Day Baskets

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been meaning to write this for a year, ever since a friend on LJ linked to an article talking about the forgotten tradition of May Day baskets and how people would leave them on doorsteps for family, friends, or lovers. I meant to have this written before Sunday but I forgot about it until Monday. Oops.

He’d seen her in the fields, sweet, lovely Belle with the shining blue eyes and the ready smile even for the lowly spinners’ nephew no one else cared for.

She was new to the village, though “new” meant that her father had brought her with him after an unsuccessful war had destroyed her old town. And that had been almost two years ago.

Rumplestiltskin kept his distance as much as one could in their small village. Belle and her father might be just as poor as the rest of them, but their manners and the fancy way they talked and the fine cut of their clothes meant that they knew of richer times, better times and, therefore, she was above him in every way. One didn’t need to be wealthy to be too good for him and Belle… Oh, she was perfect.

There were instances when he was allowed to speak with Belle, just her alone without her father looming nearby ready to quash any clumsy overtures Rumplestiltskin might make. Usually he saw her during the market days when she needed to replenish her thread supply, but sometimes, on lucky days, they would meet by happenstance and she would have a sweet smile and a welcoming greeting before they went their separate ways leaving him feeling as if his skin was too hot, too tight, too rough.

It always gave him a thrill to be near her. Just being close made his skin buzz like the the air after a lightning strike. He cherished those encounters, holding each one close to his heart, taking them out only at night when his chores were over and he’d collapsed onto his bed, exhausted and alone. Then he would bring them out, one by one, polishing each memory in turn, remembering how she’d looked or how she smiled or how she’d waited long enough for him to respond. Almost as if she wanted him to talk to her.

Belle could read, which was another thing that set her apart from everyone else in the town. A feat of magic that went beyond the village’s ken. She had brought knowledge and books and shared them both with anyone who wished to learn the skill. Rumplestiltskin had never dared even if he’d found the time. What did a shepherd need with words? What would a spinner do with books? It was more than he deserved and more than he dared.

Belle walked through town with a book in a tiny hand and a dreamy look on her face. She spoke of adventures and far off places and of creatures that should have led to nightmares instead of enthusiastic speculation. She was a funny girl, but he loved her for it.

She treated him kindly, but she treated everyone kindly. Being from “foreign places” she didn’t have the prejudice against him that the rest of the town did. She’d heard of his father, of course. Of how the man was a cheat and a con artist, too cowardly to raise his own son and had run out on him, leaving the boy to be brought up by his spinster aunts. But, strange as it seemed, Belle was the only one who didn’t hold Rumplestiltskin responsible for his father’s actions.

Sometimes, when he was tending to his sheep, she came out by herself to gather flowers. She would wave at him, her sleeve falling all the way back to her shoulder revealing pale skin that looked soft and enticing and forbidden. Her lilting voice would carry over the field as she waited patiently for him to answer. She never joined him on the hillside, the stream was too wide for that, but she lingered at the meadow, not seeming to mind whenever she caught him stealing glances at her.

If he’d had a dog, he might have braved the water enough to talk to her, but his last dog died long ago and there had been no means of getting another one. He couldn’t risk one of his sheep getting carried away by a predator, a depletion in his flock meant a depletion in his income and he was already poor enough.

Belle would wander about the sea of flowers — the tallest stems reaching nearly to her waist — and fill her apron until it overflowed with blossoms. Then, after a wave goodbye, she would make her way back to her home, no doubt to fill every jar and pot that could be spared. It must look like a bower inside her home, he often thought. He’d never been inside of course, but he could imagine her humming to herself as she put jars of flowers on any available surface she could find.

Sometimes, during the cold, endless nights of lambing season, when he was up to his armpit inside a laboring sheep trying to sort out limbs from tails and praying to any god that would listen for a safe birthing, he wished there was another to help him with his burden. Someone to relieve him when he got too exhausted to stay awake. Someone who wanted to share his life.

He had been alone too long.

There were other, more worthy men to court Belle. Men who would make her happy. Men who didn’t have only a small, squat cottage, a handful of sheep, and a legacy to live down. She would have her choice eventually and he would wish her the best no matter how much his heart ached.

He didn’t think he would ever get over the way his stomach pitched when she was nearby or the way he ached after their brief talks. He wanted her to be happy, but he thought none of the other men could love her nearly as much as he did. It was impossible. But then, his aunts did warn him of being selfish.

He suspected there was some truth to that.

Up until the time Belle moved to town he’d thought Milah was the most beautiful woman in the village and, indeed, they bore a small similarity to each other in their hair and eye color, but beyond that, they were like night and day. While Belle was smart, Milah was cunning. Where Belle would greet a person with a kind word, Milah would sneer unless you had status. If you tripped and fell, Belle would pick you up while Milah would laugh while you bled.

He wasn’t the only one who had noticed. Milah had taken to copying Belle, whether in a fit of jealousy or real admiration was up for discussion among the old biddies who minded everyone’s business. When Belle fashioned a dress out of a light blue material, laced up the front and pulled over a chemise of pure white, Milah was seen a few weeks later in as near a copy as she could make. She wore her hair pulled back at the ears now instead of knotted back at the neck and, even though it didn’t shine copper in the sun, it had a healthy glow to it just the same. She had even taken to carrying around a small book — heaven knows where she’d acquired it -— despite the fact that she couldn’t read. Belle probably gave it to her.

Milah had her good qualities. Her cunning proved her intelligence, something he desired in a wife, and she was good to those to whom she was loyal. He hoped for a companion, someone who would give him chance, overlook his father’s misdeeds, and welcome a family.

Milah had given him to understand that she might be the one to do that. That she was from the village and she seemed to like him well enough to tolerate his mild advances didn’t escape his notice. She didn’t seem afraid of his past as so many others had been and that was encouraging indeed. Her kindness would come eventually he was sure. She just needed time to get over her youthful infatuation with… smoky taverns and rowdy men.

Milah would have him and Belle was so far above his reach that she may as well be on the moon. Milah wasn’t Belle, but she was good enough. Perhaps they would grow to love one another in time.

Everything would be so much nicer if there were two.

The evening before May Day, Rumplestiltskin wandered about the familiar meadow, picking flowers to fill the small basket he fashioned out of green willow branches. He intended to make his advances known this year. He was lonely and wanted a wife. He’d wanted a wife for too long and was beginning to feel the passage of time

He filled the basket with all of Belle’s favorite flowers. Lupines and poppies and daisies, and cornflowers and rose angels. Every one reminded him of Belle as he tucked them onto a bed of dark green ferns. It was simple and earnest and he hoped it would be good enough.

He left the meadow sadly, feeling that no matter what happened in the morning, his private glimpses of Belle while he tended his sheep were about to come to an end. No doubt she would finally choose a suitor this year. A husband and family would keep her occupied, too busy to gather flowers and keep a lonely shepherd company if only for an hour.

Belle would not have him. Even if he worked up the nerve to ask, surely she would refuse him. It would be kind as was her nature, but it would be cutting just the same. He should go where he knew he was welcome. There was no use in reaching for the moon when you had to climb up from the gutter.

Rumplestiltskin looked down at the basket with a frown. Then he stared down the lane where Milah lived. She would expect an offering this year. She had all but demanded it from him. It was unthinkable to court without leaving a May Day basket on your intended’s doorstep. Almost an insult. He desperately wished to be a husband, but what kind of husband would he be if he truly loved another?

He wanted a wife. He wanted a family. He wanted love. And there was only one way to get them if he dared. Rumplestiltskin squared his shoulders and strode down the dusty road. He had a basket to deliver.

 

He had been up half the night mending his best shirt and cleaning his boots until everything looked as presentable as possible. A cold bath by the fire completed his task and he lay awake the rest of the night dreaming of smiling blue eyes and kind words and soft touches.

May Day dawned bright and clear and the townsfolk were bustling about in their best clothes and brightest smiles as they worked getting the maypole set up. Small children dressed to their necks in ruffles and ribbons ran about getting in everyone’s way, but, for this one day, nobody minded. It was a new year and a new season and there was warmth in the air again. Soon the dancing and drinking would begin while lovers found each other, their hands filled with May Day baskets and their faces filled with the hope for the future.

He’d heard that the Thatchers had a bitch who recently whelped, perhaps they would allow him to buy a puppy once it was old enough to be away from its mother. A dog who would keep him company and help him tend the flock better. A dog didn’t mind what you looked like or what your past was. All they needed was a little bit of kindness and love and a job to do and they would stay with you forever.

After talking with Thatcher and his wife and examining the puppies, they agreed on a price and a pick of the litter -- a fuzzy gray one with black ears and and a white blaze on its chest that looked more intelligent than the rest -- and Rumplestiltskin felt better about the coming winter than he had for a long time. He would have someone to share his life with. She would have four legs instead of two and the conversation would be terribly one-sided, but a dog wouldn’t mind listening to endless prattle.

He joined the townsfolk during the speeches, but hung back when the dancing started, finding a spot under an old, spreading elm tree to sit as the revelry began, slumping down against the truck with a hand dangling off of a propped up knee. He watched with unseeing eyes, his mind wandering as he thought of sky blue eyes and chestnut hair and pink-lipped smiles and wished he’d been braver.

He didn’t know how much time had passed. The songs all blended into each other with endless variations of either “ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-la” or “ring-ting-a-ling-ting.” It was easy to forget what the song was when the lyrics were all the same. He was just beginning to think about heading back to his cottage when a gentle voice, richly accented, broke his reverie.

“Good afternoon, Rumplestiltskin.”

He jerked his head up at the sound of Belle’s voice and stared at her bleary-eyed. The sun was behind her hiding her face from his view, but her hair shone like the fairy lights that sometimes appeared on the edge of the woods. Then she stepped forward out of the sunlight and knelt next to him underneath the tree, spreading out her skirts as she made herself comfortable.

“Miss B-Belle,” he stammered as he sat up against the trunk, awed that she had stopped to talk with him. How many times did he wish for this very thing? It seemed his May Day was going to be miraculous after all. He glanced down at her lap and saw his tiny basket in her hands and he felt his stomach turn to lead.

How had she known it was him? Was she here to return it? Was it that unwanted? His hadn’t been the only basket left on her doorstep last night. There was a bigger, grander basket filled with cut roses waiting when he arrived. Probably left by the headman’s oldest son. How did she know?

“I’ve been looking for you,” she said, her mouth pressed into a stern line that was offset by the sparkling of her eyes. Teasing him.

He swallowed thickly.

She looked at him closely, a mysterious smile hanging on the corners of her mouth. Finally, she had mercy on him and looked down at her basket, carefully choosing a blossom from his offerings — one of the rose angels, the petals as pink as her lips. Holding it up and twirling it between her fingers she looked back up at him with shining blue eyes.

“These only grow in the meadow by the stream,” she told him, eyeing him carefully.

His shoulders dropped as he looked at the blossom in her hand, his breath caught in his throat. Of course. Of course. Belle was brilliant and of course she knew it was him. He was an idiot and she was too clever for him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t think you would know. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“I thought,” she said, tucking the flower behind his ear where it tickled the side of his face. Her finger traced the edge of his ear as she let go, sending him into a shivering mass unable to link two thoughts together. “That you and Milah were a…thing?” she asked, her voice gone reedy as she stared up at him, her eyes wide and questioning.

He’d tried to be a thing, but… “My heart wasn’t— it wasn’t into it,” he confessed, suddenly aware of how fickle he looked now. “We never had an understanding.”

“So you’re unattached?” she asked.

Rumplestiltskin laughed, a coarse bark that felt like it was ripped from his gut. He thunked his head against the side of the tree, dislodging the flower she’d given him. He picked it up from his lap and held it in his clumsy fingers. Then kissed each petal softly and handed it to her.

She took it from him with trembling fingers and held it up to her lips, letting the petals brush against them. A kiss.

“I haven’t been unattached since you came to the village,” he said, watching her for signs of disgust, alarmed at how bold he was becoming. “I’m hopelessly attached and I’m afraid—”

“Afraid?” she interrupted, a distressing crease between her brows as she frowned at him. “Of me?”

He shook his head then nodded, feeling twice the fool. “I only have a small cottage and a few sheep and a hard life, Belle,” he said, touching the back of his fingers to her cheek. It was softer than any petal in that basket, he marveled. “You deserve a castle…”

“I had a castle,” she told him, reaching up to hold his hand against her cheek.

That surprised him. He knew Belle was highborn, but he never realized how far above him she was. It was a good thing that she had anchored his hand because he tried to tug it away and only her hand pressed to his kept it there.

“I had a castle,” she repeated leaning closer until her breath ghosted over his face. “It didn’t suit, never did. But, I think I’d rather have a cottage with a good man and maybe a few sheep. As long as it’s with you.”

She was so close now. All he had to do was lean down just a fraction of an inch…  
He lowered his head until their noses bumped. Her eyelids fluttered shut and she raised her chin, accepting him. He took just a moment to marvel at her before he too closed his eyes, kissing her softly — just a light brush of his lips against hers touching off a shiver of sparks at the contact. They were soft and pliant and opened immediately with a soft sigh as he pulled her in close, wrapping his arms around her, cradling her head with one hand. She clutched at his shirt, holding him tightly against her and he moaned into her mouth as her tongue tentatively touched his. The sounds of the village faded away and every care that had held Rumplestiltskin back disappeared as they eagerly explored each other.

At last, when the need for air was too great to ignore, he broke away with a gasp, blinking rapidly, feeling a little bit drunk and a little bit reckless and a lot of bit in awe.

Belle’s eyes slowly opened to stare at him in wonder, those beautiful lips he’d just kissed spreading wide into a glorious smile.

“Do you like dogs,” he asked suddenly.

A look of startled confusion crossed her face before she gave a tiny, breathless laugh, resting her forehead on his. “Love them,” she assured them as she cupped his cheek with a soft hand.

Rumplestiltskin smiled, leaning into the warm palm of her hand. “Good.”


End file.
